


My World Flipped Turned Upside Down (That's What You Get)

by DracoWinchester7237



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 6th year, Deatheaters, Drarry, Harry/Draco - Freeform, Hogwarts, M/M, rewrite of an old idea, something thats stuck in my head
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:42:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28637205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoWinchester7237/pseuds/DracoWinchester7237
Summary: Harry's summers are never great, one day while trying to avoid the Dursleys harry stumbles upon someone that needs his help, whether he wants it or not.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	1. Simple Things To Get By

**Author's Note:**

> It's been far too long since I've posted anything here. but I'm super excited about this one! let me know what you think in the comments if you want to.

Summer at the Dursleys was not a vacation. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t just stay at the castle during the wretched two months in between classes. But he was over whining about it. Dumbledore would only spew more bullshit about how it was the safest place for him until he turned 18. That was a load of crap. Harry would dare to say he’d be safer in Voldemort’s grip than spending one more summer with his Aunt and Uncle. 

But it didn’t matter what Harry would dare to say. No one would listen to him anyway. He knew his place by now. He was a pawn in everyone else’s games. A pawn, the first piece to be sacrificed in any game of wizard’s chess. That’s all he was. 

The park was hot. Sweat trickled down his neck and back making him feel wet and gross. Harry always felt gross over the summer. He hated the raw heat. 

He missed flying, no matter how hot it was, feeling the wind in his face created only by how fast he could cut through the air was exhilarating. It was something he was good at, really and truly good at. Something that wasn’t tied to Voldemort, or his scar, or his bloody destiny. Something that wasn’t orchestrated for him. Something that was just him. 

Harry wiped sweat off his forehead. Yeah, he hated the heat, but it was far better than being in that house all day. He much preferred sitting in an abandoned swing or riding around on trains all day to the way things were at home. No, the Dursleys was not a home. These days Harry wasn’t sure where ‘home’ could be. 

The sun was going down. The sun was going down and Harry was hot and he didn’t want to go back to the house. But the sun was going down. So he stood, legs and back aching from sitting so still for so long. And he started the long walk back, with his hands shoved inside his pockets and his head down. 

He kicked a rock every few steps. The rock slid across the pavement in front of him skipping and jumping along as Harry kicked it. It was a game he liked to play, see how far he can kick a rock from the park all the way to number 4. It was stupid and mindless. But if he made it all the way back and the rock was still in front of him, he’d leave it in the driveway. It always annoyed his Aunt Petunia who took pride in her perfectly manicured front lawn and all the handpicked stones that went there. And when Aunt Petunia was annoyed, she annoyed Uncle Vernon which was always Harrys’ goal. And it’s not like they could tie a stupid little rock to him.

It was the simple things that got Harry through the Summers. 

  
  


It Harry was lucky then the house would be quiet when he opened the door. So far Harry didn’t like his odds. He was standing in front of the front door, the front door where he’d been left as a baby. And he was waiting to open it, trying to judge if anyone behind it would be awake, not that he could easily tell. Not that he could really tell at all. Maybe it was another game he liked to play. Wait a moment and strain to see if he could hear anything behind the door. Guess if anyone was awake and then go in and see if he was right or not. 

For no reason at all harry decided to go with a 45% chance that his aunt and uncle were asleep. He hated to go with 50/50 odds. It felt like cheating somehow. 

In a way he was right. 

  
  


The next morning Harry left before anyone woke up to tell him what he needed to do, sure it might piss them off later if they remember. He woke and snuck out before light could even begin to touch his bedroom. He left before his uncle even started to get ready for work. Sure he was tired. Dead tired. He hadn’t much been able to sleep after… well, just after. 

He walked quickly out of the neighborhood. He skipped the park for now and kept walking. His glasses were cracked and bent but it was only a mild inconvenience. He was a bit surprised he’d made it this far into the summer before they were broken. He knew Hermione would fix them for him as soon as they were on the train. 

No. He didn’t let himself think about the train or Hermione. Or anything that meant school was coming up soon. If he thought about it then he would miss it all the more. And if he missed it any more than he already did then he would never make it the last three weeks. He would never make it. 

He pushed his glasses back up onto his nose, peering through the one good side. He was still walking but he wasn’t sure where. He didn’t care where It didn’t matter where. The brief thought about Hermione was already making his hands shake in something akin to anticipation. And sorrow. His friends, even if they tried to write, the letters would never reach him. 

Light broke in the sky ahead of him and Harry stopped walking. He was already sweaty again. He wasn’t sure how long that means he’s been walking but the sun was finally coming up. Peeking over the buildings ahead. The darkness receding against the burst of warm colors. Harry liked watching the sunrise. It looked different almost every morning from almost every place. 

Today it looked like fire dancing across the horizon. He stood there a little longer watching the dark fade into the pale blue of morning. And then he turned around and started walking back. Not back to the Dursleys, but the park, at least until he was sure Uncle Vernon was gone for the day and he could sneak back into his room to find spare change enough to buy himself something to eat, or at least coffee to get him through wandering around the rest of the day. 

Harry liked the park this early, and when it was late at night. Those were the times that he would be at least mostly alone. Children didn’t wake early and weren’t out late, at least not the kids that actually enjoyed the park for playing. And if he were to be seen here by his uncle, or Dudley, well they were all too focused on their image to do anything to him here, in plain view of the nicer houses across the field. Houses much too nice for Vernon to afford. Harry snorted at the thought of Vernon confronting him here. 

Harry sat in his swing and kicked the dirt. He was alone. And it was quiet. But there was something in the air that felt… well it felt like magic. 

He was told his whole wizarding life that you couldn’t just feel magic in the air. That it was just something that existed in him. But everyone was wrong. There was a distinct shift in the air, something almost electric, that tickled the hairs on his arm and the back of his neck. 

It almost crackled. 

It was like adrenaline or something. 

And right now, in muggle little whinging. It felt like magic. 

But Harry was alone. Wasn’t he? 

Slowly he got up from his swing, the chains whines at him when he moved but he ignored the noise taking a step forward, looking at the deserted scene. Waiting for something to jump out at him. 

Perhaps Dobby decides to visit? No. That’s not likely, if it was dobby he’d already been attacked with hugs by now. 

The air stopped crackling and all felt still again. 

What had that been? He knew it wasn’t him. He hadn’t done any form of accidental magic since the summer before his third year. No matter how upset he got or how hurt he was he hadn’t wanted to risk expulsion. So he knew it wasn’t coming from him. 

Someone was here then. They had to be. Was he In danger? Was someone watching him. Or perhaps some small child was an unknown witch or wizard just waiting for their Hogwarts letter. But there were no children here. Option one seemed far more likey then. 

Immediately Harry fell into the defensive. His wand was tucked into his waistband but he didn’t grab it, not yet. He tried to act like nothing was wrong, pulled his shoulders back, and casually brushed the non-existent dirt from his pants before starting to walk across the park. 

His eyes, almost out of habit, glanced to the sky. Nothing here had happened to warrant the dark mark but ever since his fourth year, he’s caught himself looking for it any time a situation feels off. 

The last of the night sky had disappeared for the day. He was almost to the other side of the park when something caught his eye. A color that felt out of place among the bright primary colors of the play yard and the dirt. 

Harry turned trying to find what caught his eye. 

Platinum blonde hair. That’s what it looked like Harry thought. Probably just something left behind from the children yesterday. He started to continue on his walk. But stopped again when he heard a strained cough. 

Harry never played here. Not really. As a child, he wasn’t allowed. When he and his cousin were too young to wander alone Petunia would either leave Harry in his closet under the stairs, or she’d keep him on the bench next to her. Not allowed to play in the same space as her precious Dudley. 

So Harry had never climbed the steps of the play yard equipment, to where the tops of the slides opened up for kids to crawl into. But now he found himself doing just that. Climbing up the steps that as a child seemed so much taller. 

He realized quickly that what he’s seen a glimpse of actually was hair. The crackle of magic was back in the air, if only very faintly.

Harry nearly slipped on the top step. He caught himself on a rail, meant to keep the kids from falling off. When he looked down at his shoe he saw the sticky thick red and he shuddered. He almost backed away. He almost ran away. But he didn’t. He was careful not to step in the red sticky trail as he knelt by the body. By the boy. 

Harry wasn’t sure if he was alive. There was blood. Merlin, but there was blood trailing from and clinging to him. Matted in the hair that looked too familiar to Harry. Three was blood, and his body was facing away from him. He couldn’t see any signs of breathing. He wasn’t sure what to do if the boy was dead. Did he leave him? No. No child Should see something like that. No boy should be left this way. Abandoned and bloody. Anyway, Harry had heard him cough, hadn’t he? Harry was equally unsure of what to do if the boy was alive. He wasn’t a healer. But either way, Harry had to do  _ something.  _

He reached out to touch his shoulder, gently rolling him onto his back, Harry intended to check for breathing and to try to wake him but he stumbled back with a sharp gasp escaping his lips. 

The first thing that caught his eye wasn’t the dark mark standing out clear as day on the pale pale skin where the sleeve of the shirt had been ripped, or the once white button-down shirt that now clung wet with blood to the boy. no, the first thing Harry noticed was his face and the dark dark bruise on his face. And his closed eyes. And the lips that were turning blue, slightly parted. And he saw the boy’s chest shudder with the attempt at breathing. And with sudden absolute clarity, Harry knew he had to help him. 

He wasn’t a very strong person. Not physically or any other way a person could be described as strong. But he was a determined person. It was with that determination, Harry slid his arms under the boys’ shoulders and knees and stood. He was light. But so was Harry. It wouldn’t be the easiest thing in the world. Harry wasn’t even sure where they would go yet. But he started walking anyway. 

He walked for a while before the boy stirred. He glanced down to see one gray-blue eye struggling to open and look around.

“Don’t move” Harry said softly he cringed at the sound of his voice. He hadn’t heard himself speak in awhile. 

“Wha-“ the boy started to say trying to move his head 

“Your… your safe” the word safe tasted like a lie in his mouth. Tasted like acid and made the back of his left hand itch. 

“P... Potter?” The boy said, voice full of confusion. So different from how it usually sounded. Then Draco Malfoy passed out. In Harry Potter’s arms. 


	2. Honors and Horrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco is found to be less than ready for the Dark Lords plans

There were rules. 

Don’t look him in the eye. 

Don’t address him unless he speaks to you first. 

Don’t ask questions. 

There were rules. There had to be rules. He’d been taught these rules as long as he could remember. 

He held his shoulders back, kept his chin up but his eyes down and he followed his mother and father into the long black room that once served as a place for his father to hold meetings with people he wanted to intimidate. 

Now the room served a more important purpose. A place for the Dark Lord to gather his followers, of which Draco was one, or more accurately, would be one. 

It was an honor, his father had said, to be invited to these meetings. To be chosen to help the Dark Lord achieve his goals. An honor to be chosen to take the dark mark at his young age. Draco had been ecstatic at the beginning of the summer at the news. He’d attended the meetings, and was given a mission, to prove himself, the Dark Lord had said. His father had told him how proud he was of Draco. His father had told him what an honor it was.

An honor. His father said. A great honor. 

So why then, was Draco having second thoughts? 

He stood behind his chair, as did all the members in attendance. The room was loud with silence. Draco had come to hate silence. He kept his eyes down. He had to, it was the rules. And for the briefest of moments upon when they entered Draco swore he saw the Muggle Studies professor hovering over the stretched out table. 

The sound of bare feet could be faintly heard to one end of the room. He was here. He took his seat at the head of the table and only when he opened his arms and greeted them with a hissed ‘welcome’ were they allowed to be seated. 

Draco sat, stiffly. He made a mental note to pull his shoulders back and keep his chin up. He was a Malfoy and he needed to look it, especially here. 

This meeting had little to do with him, most things the Dark Lord said had little to do with him beyond assigning the mission. But here he was, sitting to the right of his father. A position that showed he was ready to follow in his father's footsteps. A position Draco took up of his own free will a little over a month ago. A position that Draco now loathed. 

His father had always been a picture of power to Draco. He had never had to see this side of things. His father taught him that to serve by the Dark Lord's side was where the Malfoys would always belong. He told Draco bedtime stories about the good days when the Dark Lord was purifying the magical community. 

‘Purifying’ that's what his father had said. Blood purity was the foundation of what the Dark Lord stood for. The foundation of what the Malfoys always believed. The foundation of what Draco believed. His father told him stories about how the heretic muggle lovers were being wiped out to put those with pure blood back on top where they always belonged. 

In his father's stories, it made sense. 

In his father's stories, the Dark Lord was a good guy, the superhero who stood up for what was right. 

Only it didn’t quite feel right when the Dark Lord was in the room. Draco didn’t feel right when he was told he’d be expected to kill Dumbledore in the following school year. The headmaster of Hogwarts who always opposed the Dark Lord. It was Draco's honor to remove that opposition. 

He wasn’t sure what he expected. 

His father was a shadow of what Draco always thought he was. His father didn’t look powerful anymore. He looked weak. Slumped over when he thought no one saw him. The way he went about serving the Dark Lord was no different than their house-elves served them. In what world were Malfoys meant to be servants? Not in the world, his father painted for him. Not in the world, Draco wanted to live in. it didn’t make sense to Draco. 

He wasn’t sure what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. He was expected to kill. On some level, Draco always knew that was a possibility in his future. But not one he’d have to face so soon. 

But there was a plan in place, and rules to follow, and expectations to upkeep. Though, it made him sick to think his whole life had been leading him to these moments. To these meetings. To this plan. And failure was not to be an option. 

Draco's eyes flicked to the empty seat at the table. The seat directly to the right of the Dark Lord, who was talking about something or another. It was dangerous for Draco not to know what was being talked about, but he usually never had to say more than ‘yes, my Lord’ or ‘no, my Lord’. 

The seat remained empty and the Dark Lord continued talking, or rather, some take on hissing. It was a dreadful sound. It’s what Draco would imagine a snake would sound like trying to speak English. It slithered down his spine and sent a chill into the pit of his stomach.

Time inched by unbearably slowly. 

Draco glanced back at the empty seat only to realize at some point Severus Snape had joined the group. It wasn’t good that Draco could miss that. If he missed too much he’d get himself into trouble. He tuned back into the meeting. 

They were talking about Harry Potter. They were about to make an attack. Draco tuned back out, he didn’t want to listen. 

It seemed to escape the notice of everyone else at the table that The Dark Lord was more interested in killing a teenage boy than his take over on the ministry. He’d asked his father about that after his fourth year at Hogwarts when the rumors of the Dark Lord's return had started. His father had gotten quiet, but not angry. His father had said it wasn’t for him to understand and left it at that. 

Draco never asked again. 

Sure he hated the boy. He was so smug all the time and he wasn’t even a pureblood. There was nothing about Harry Potter that should have him walking around like he was the epitome of all things good. Potter didn’t know what ‘good’ meant. 

But did all that mean that the boy had to die? Draco’s hands began to tremble slightly in his lap. He wasn’t ready for anything about this world he found himself in. there were so many things he knew, he just knew he couldn’t do. Things he had no choice but to do. 

Draco wasn't ready for these tests the Dark Lord was giving him. 

And dammit but his father knew 

“Draco” His father hissed as quietly as he could, trying not to draw attention to them. Draco looked over his father who was glancing pointedly at Dracos hands. The trembling had gotten worse. Silently Draco took a breath and forced them to be still before blinking coldly at his father and turning away. His father recently taught him to be unwavering. To be stone cold. One thing Draco was good at was pretending. 

The Dark Lord was standing now, walking towards them. Draco bit the inside of his cheek. 

“-but not faintly harm one another, if I am to kill him.” The Dark Lord walked past Draco and he felt himself stiffen slightly. “I am to do so with another's wand. Come, surely one of you would like the honor?” there was that word again. Honor. The Dark Lord was walking back towards them now. “Hmm? What about you?” Draco almost choked. He was staring straight ahead. Please please not me. He thought desperately. “Lucius?” To Dracos left he could see the Dark Lord’s hand reaching out to his father. 

Draco was relieved for himself and sick for his father and the way he shrank back. Shoulders back. Chin up. But his father cowered. And handed over his wand. 

Once in the Dark Lord's hands, he sent a curse at the woman Draco had made a point not to look at. Now he was looking though. Her body slammed into the tabletop in front of him. It was the only place he could look. He didn’t stop himself from jumping back a fraction of an inch at the impact. Her cold dead eyes were looking directly at him. He wanted to cry. He did not cry. 

Finally, the meeting was called to an end. 

“Except for the Malfoys,” the Dark Lord said, almost as an afterthought. Draco felt cold as he stood there. He wanted to look to his father for help but he didn’t, instead, he stood there beside his father and his mother next to him, waiting. “Oh forgive me, the elder of the Malfoys. Draco may go.” He stood there a second too long, hesitation was a sign of weakness. He tried to cover it up by bending slightly in a bow. 

Malfoys didn’t bow to anyone. So he’d thought. But he’d seen his father bow to the Dark Lord countless times. The Dark Lord made a noise of approval and Draco stood and left. 

he slipped through the halls of what used to be his home. What used to be warm and comforting. But now, Malfoy manor had never felt worse to him. He ducked into his room and carefully worked the ring off his finger dropping it onto his dresser in disgust. He didn’t want to wear the Malfoy crest if this is what being a Malfoy was about. 

He crossed the room and fell onto his four-poster bed, his head fell into his hands. He remembered when he was younger. Eleven years old, ready to head off to Hogwarts for the first time. He remembered how proud his father had been when he was sorted into Slytherin. It was such a happy time for their family. Draco took a lot of pride in being a Slytherin. Maybe more pride than in his family name right now. Draco used to look up to his father, used to be proud of him and his family name. It was startling to Draco that he no longer did. 

And now he had to prove himself to be what he no longer wanted to be. 

The Dark Lord was testing him, A test he would have to pass or fail. To pass would mean to live, but to live in service of the Dark Lord. To fail would mean to make his own choices, be his own person, be free. But to fail would also mean to die. So where was the choice? 

His door opened and Draco was quick to jump up and fix his hair to lay flat and perfect again. But when he looked his mother wasn’t looking at him, but at the ring, lying abandoned on the dresser. She’d never seen him take it off.

“Draco,” her voice sounded like a warning and it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. 

“M.. Mother?” he stuttered. Of course, he stuttered, he could never stand tall against his mother. She used to be his safe place. She used to be the only one he didn't have to pretend around. The only one who has ever seen him cry past his toddler years. And Draco very much felt like crying now. 

“Draco. I shouldn’t be here” She started. Her voice broke in a way Draco had never heard from her before. “And neither should you.” Draco couldn’t understand what she was trying to say but he could see the conflict in her eyes. Something was wrong. 

“What, what do you mean?” He tried to pull his mask back on, to stand straighter, but it felt like the world was threatening to crush him in that moment. There were footsteps in the hall behind her. Multiple footsteps and Draco felt his fight or flight reflex trying to surface. He wanted to run. 

“I’m sorry” she whispered as a single tear fell down her cheek. And then she was being shoved out of the way and his father was surging through the door. Coming at him so fast Draco automatically stumbled backward, unable to maintain his posture or his cool facade, he was sure the fear showed in his face. His father looked ready to kill him. A look Draco had never seen on his father’s face before and as soon as he was close enough, as soon as he had him back against the wall, his father slapped him hard across the face. Another occurrence that had never happened before. 

“Did you forget that the Dark Lord, the most powerful wizard of our time, did you not think he could tell that you are untrue?” His father was whispering angrily over him. Draco was still stunned from the slap to let the words sink in. “you have killed us all” and then the room was filling with more people. But the only thing Draco could focus on was his mother. The strongest person Draco had ever known. His mother was on the floor hugging herself with tears running down her face, a hand clamped over her mouth to try and silence her cries. 

But it was all Draco could hear. 

Then the Dark Lord entered the room. Draco wasn’t sure what happened but the room went dark and cold. 

There was a plan. A set of rules and expectations that Draco let fall. Failure, his father always said, was not an option for a Malfoy. But Draco failed, and now there was nothing left. 


	3. Contrasting Thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw blood and injuries!!!!
> 
> Read responsibly and let me know what you think!

Harry found himself standing at the base of the Dursley’s driveway. Malfoy had grown completely limp, and his arms were beginning to burn. He wasn’t sure why it surprised him to be standing here. There was nowhere else he could go. No, where he could take Malfoy but right here. It was still early. The moon could still be seen in the soft morning light. Hopefully, this would mean his aunt would still be asleep. She was always the hardest to predict of the Dursleys. 

He trudged up the driveway and struggled to open the door. There were quite a many obstacles he was trying to negate while doing so, a mental checklist was running through his head. 

Open the door but don’t drop Malfoy. 

Open the door but don’t get blood on the welcome mat. 

Open the door but please merlin don’t wake anyone. 

Open the door. 

  
  


Finally, he managed a grip on the handle tight enough to push it open. Thankful his uncle always forgot to lock the door, Harry above all else was not allowed a key. He used his hip to try and wipe away the one bloody fingerprint he’d left behind. 

The house was silent and he whispered a near-silent “Thank Merlin'' as he toed the door the rest of the way closed. The soft click echoed in Harry's ears and he stilled for a few moments to make sure no one had heard. To make sure his aunt hadn’t heard. 

If the walk from the park to the house was rough on Harry’s always aching limbs, it had nothing on the trek up the stairs. His whole body shook when his feet fell on the top step. All at once, the relief at being almost there was replaced with his sinking heart. His bedroom door was wide open. Meaning, his uncle had spent at least a few minutes looking for him this morning. That was never a good sign. He fought against the tremble that had begun to creep up his spine and made his way through the doorway. At least he wouldn't have to worry with another doorknob. 

As carefully as he could he laid Malfoy over top of his sheets. Then promptly collapsed against his dresser breathing heavily and probably jostling Hedwig in her cage. This was not the situation in which Harry wanted another boy in his sheets. The thought caught Harry off guard and he snorted not at all quietly. Hedwig hooted something akin to disapproval as if she could know of what he was thinking. She had a point, even if she didn’t know it. This was entirely not the time. 

Draco Malfoy was unconscious in his bed. Before he could really let that thought sink in, he heard movement throughout the house. Harry half jumped, half crawled across the small room closing his door as quietly as he could and twisting the lock. An act that was always forbidden when his uncle was home. He'd rather risk him finding a locked door than a boy in his bed. A bleeding boy in his bed. A bleeding wizard boy in his bed. Merlin, but he would be dead if Vernon found out about this. And not in the way kids claim their parents would kill them. Harry would be really and truly dead. Buried under Petunia’s roses or thrown to the bottom of the lake in the middle of the night never to be seen again kind of dead. This would only ever end badly, Harry knew that. But he was determined to avoid that particular future. 

He sat back on the floor, against his door and allowed himself thirty seconds to properly freak out. 

A bleeding wizard boy in his bed. 

A boy who was Draco Malfoy was bleeding in his bed, and there was little Harry could do about it being underage just barely, but regardless enough to keep him from being able to use magic. There was supposed to be an allowance for life or death situations as was this one, but after last year's trial attempting to expel him for protecting himself, he knew the ministry was watching him particularly closely and he would not be allowed any such allowances. 

It wasn’t like he was meant to save the whole of the bloody wizarding world or anything. 

He had to figure a way to save Malfoy though. Why exactly he even wanted to save the boy he couldn't comprehend. Malfoy made it his personal mission, it seemed, to make Harry's life acutely miserable at school. Not that Malfoy much exceeded in that. Malfoy had nothing on the Dursleys. 

But being a school bully didn’t mean you deserved to die. 

Being a death eater did, didn't it? Harry thought remembering the dark mark etched into Malfoy’s skin. 

Harry told himself it was only because of this ruddy chosen one nonsense. Like it was in his blood to save people or whatever. That wasn’t exactly true. These days Harry's name was a cause of death to those around him. And maybe he was tired of watching death win. 

Maybe he wanted to prove something. 

His thirty seconds were over. As if on a timer his hands stopped shaking and Harry pulled himself up Aching limbs and all. First, he needed to make sure the bleeding had stopped. Really he should have done that in the first place. Then he needed to find help. 

It was fairly a straightforward plan. As plans of his could go. It was at least better than “don’t die, don’t get anyone killed” though that was just as much a part of this plan as any other, he tacked on a silent ‘or worse expelled’ that seemed to be a running theme year after year as well.

While deep in thought Harry had snuck into the bathroom and retrieved a pile of Petunia's fluffy white towels. Harry lowered himself to his knees on the floor next to the bed, or rather, mattress on the floor. He had had a bedframe once. In truth, he couldn’t remember how it had broken. Just that he no longer had one. He sat back on his heels and assessed the damage with unattached emotion. He peeled the fabric of Malfoy’s shirt away from the wound. 

Blood wasn’t a foreign sight to Harry. To most people, the sight of so much of it would likely lead to a fit of nausea or even a fainting spell. Harry was used to open wounds and red was his favorite color 

  
  


It seeped from a slash that stretched from the bottom of Malfoy’s ribs, across his stomach, and ended at his hip. Harry took in the angry gash for a moment before pressing a towel over the deepest part. Watching Petunia’s fluffy white towel soak up the blood was hypnotizing. The red contrasted against the white in a way that shouldn’t be beautiful, considering the source. There was no hope for the towel. He wondered briefly how long until his aunt noticed she was missing one. 

Missing a few, Harry corrected his thoughts as he discarded the now-useless towel on the floor in favor for a clean one. 

This was an utter mess. A mess that might lead to the murder of one Harry James Potter. As he pressed the towel to Draco's middle he laughed dryly. Voldemort would be so disappointed his death came about over some ruined towels, rather than the tip of his wand. 

Once the laugh escaped his lips, something else tried to follow. Something from deep inside his chest tried desperately to tear free of its bone cage and climb up his throat. Harry swallowed the lump. He would not cry. Not in his aunt and uncle's house. Not kneeling next to Draco Malfoy. Not with his hands stained crimson as he tried to save a life rather than end it. Harry would not cry. There was no need. 

The bleeding stopped soaking through towels and Harry felt exhausted again. 

He didn’t care about the stain on his hands as he dug through his school trunk, tucked safely away in his closet. He was looking for a small sack gifted to him only a few months ago. 

If anyone were to attempt a guess at how Harry spent his summers, it wouldn’t be his best friends. It wouldn’t be his professors, or Lupin, or even Dumbledore. It would be Madam Pumfrey. He visited her on his first night back to Hogwarts every year since his second. And last year she sent him a few potions, one for infection, one for internal bleeding, one for pain, one for sleep, and one to help ease natural healing. Harry took the whole sack to Malfoy’s side. 

He was once again caught with the thought ‘why am I trying to save him as he uncapped the first of the potions. He didn’t try to answer himself and went about tilting Malfoys head back and pouring each of the potions down his throat. Except for the one for sleeping as Malfoy hadn’t so much as stirred since the long walk to the Dursleys. 

Part of Harry wanted the wound to automatically heal itself before his eyes. Then Malfoy would wake up and apparate away and Harry could be left with the consequences of trying to have him in peace. But not even madam Pomfrey's potions could work that fast. 

Harry sighed softly. There was nothing more he could do from here. Harry picked up the soaked towels and threw them into the floor of his closet. Another problem for another day. He was exhausted beyond belief. But his plan wasn't complete yet. He pulled out a few pieces of parchment and sat on the other side of the mattress, careful not to jostle Malfoy. With a textbook in his lap to act as a desk, he began to write. 

  
  


Two hours and three letters later Harry was done. He thought he’d written to the people with the biggest chance of caring, or ability to help. First was Dumbledore. The first letter Harry had written with blood still sticky on his hands. Leaving red fingerprints along the edges of the page. Good. maybe that would get his attention. The next was to professor McGonagall. The head of Gryffindor house and the one who offered him a biscuit when he’d gone off on Umbridge rather than scolding him for it. And the last letter, the one Harry wasn’t sure he was going to write at first, was to Severus Snape. Not someone Harry trusted or even liked. In fact, Harry knew he was aligned with Voldemort even if, for whatever reason, no one trusted him on it. He also knew that he was Draco Malfoy’s Godfather. The term hurt Harry. Godfather. It tore through him with a vengeance after a full summer of pushing away the loss of his own Godfather. But now wasn’t the time to mourn. He addressed each letter and wondered how to go about sending them. 

He glanced at Hedwig, his beautiful perfect Snowy owl trapped in her cage. A thick padlock hung off the door and the sight twisted in Harry. He knew what it was to be trapped. He wished he could let her out. But he couldn’t. So what was his next option? Ms. Figg. who Harry had found out last year had direct contact with Dumbledore. 

He hadn’t been too keen on realizing even here he had a babysitter. And that apparently the goings-on at number four Privet Drive wasn’t cause enough for Dumbledore to involve himself. He remembered breaking down in front of her when he found out why she was there and what all she knew. He had thought at the time if she had only told Dumbledore he wouldn’t have had to go back. But she had told him. And Dumbledore did nothing. 

It was late enough in the day now that if Harry were to show himself, He’d be expected to do something for his aunt for the rest of the day. But He wasn’t exactly wanting to wait and let Malfoy get possibly worse either. Harry considered the options, not that there were many. Go out the front door, get noticed by his aunt, not be able to escape her until Vernon came home. Or, out the window beside his bed, probably break his ankle, and hope whatever help came for Malfoy would send a quick episky his way before they were off. 

In the end, it was an easy choice. 

What was a few broken bones anyway to the boy who just kept on living?

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from the song, Twist in My Story by Secondhand Serenade


End file.
